What happiness the rural maid attends, In cheerful labour while each day she spends! She gratefully receives what Heav'n has sent, And, rich in poverty, enjoys content.

The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.

Of all the fools that pride can boast, A Coxcomb claims distinction most.

Envy's a sharper spur than pay: No author ever spar'd a brother; Wits are gamecocks to one another.

Thus shadow owes its birth to light.

What will not luxury taste? Earth, sea, and air, Are daily ransack'd for the bill of fare. Blood stuffed in skins is British Christians' food, And France robs marshes of the croaking brood.

Can love be controll'd by advice?